I Inherit The World
by Elessae
Summary: After an innocent dare goes wrong, Harry has a late night talk with his son, helping James understand the legacy of his name, and allowing himself to bury his own ghosts in the process. PostDH. Oneshot.


This is my first attempt at publicly sharing a work, and I would much appreciate feedback and comments. Thank you.

Copyright: Harry Potter does not belong to me, nor am I affiliated with any organizations representing this franchise.

Note: I took certain liberties with this fiction, one of which is presenting James' full name as James Sirius Potter. I strongly believe that the name is right for him, even if J.K Rowling did not explicitly state so.

I Inherit The World

The moon was already a blazing sickle in the dark skies when Ginny and him finally arrived home from St. Mungo's, their wan faces illuminated by the ghostly path of light cut out by the silver orb. Albus was in Harry's arms, clinging to his father's shirt in dreamless slumber, his small face upturned to the heavens, his left arm awkwardly tucked under Harry's elbow. Ginny gently eased that arm out, arranging it so that it is supported by the embrace between father and son, the heavy white cast weighing against Harry's chest. Harry looked down at his younger son, and his forehead creased at the sight of that cast holding Albus's broken arm together. Albus, too taken by the muggle medical dramas he watches weekly with Mr. Weasley, had insisted on this plaster cast, refusing to allow the healer at St. Mungo's to mend his break with magic. It took awhile for Harry to reach a compromise with the child, who despite the sharp pain that made his green eyes water continuously, had been adamant on sticking to his guns. Albus had finally agreed to having his arm healed, but only if he would still be given this ceremonious bandage, for the purpose of impressing Rose and Hugo when the two families next met.

"It isn't as terrible as your accident back in your second year," Ginny murmured, correctly reading her husband's expression. "At least Albus didn't have to take SkeleGro."

Harry carefully shifted his weight as he unlocked the door to their house, and waited till he was in the entryway before he replied. "That was all Lockhart's doing. I had to regrow bones, not mend them," he answered dryly. Ginny laughed softly, a calming sound to Harry's ears even after all these years, and took the sleeping Albus from his father. She kissed her husband on the cheek, her next words a low breath on his face, "Don't be too hard on James. He didn't know the accident would happen." Harry kept quiet, suddenly too tired to correct Ginny or to remind her of her own helpless anger earlier, and watched as she carried Albus up the stairs to his bedroom. He stood in the dim hallway for a few minutes, looking out the window on his right at the winking moon, and briefly remembered another night in his past, when the moon had been full and when it had been Ron who had broken a bone. Shaking his head briefly to chase away the image of whipping tree branches, their movements almost slow and fluid in his memories, he made his way to the fireplace.

He threw in a handful of floo power and knelt, waiting for the familiar green flames to flare briefly and fiercely before him. Sticking his head into the ticklish warmth, he called out the name of Ron and Hermione's cottage, and waited as the black space in front of his face spun with alarming rapidity. His best friends' abode soon came into focus, and Harry, still uncomfortable with floo communication even after all these years, coughed out a hoarse "Hello?". Two pairs of hurrying footsteps sounded in the distance; the large, shuffling gait of Ron's, and Hermione's telltale brisk walk. Ron's freckled face was soon peering back at him, an easy smile on his lips, while Hermione gazed at Harry almost worriedly, much as she had always done back in their school days.

"Albus is alright, just a clean break of the arm," he quickly assured his friends, "the healers at St. Mungo mended him easily." Hermione's face cleared in relief, and Ron placed a hand on her shoulder. "How did he pick up the break, mate? Ginny and you didn't say when you sent James over to us," the red haired man asked, more concerned than curious. "And James didn't say a word the whole time he's here either, not to us anyway," Hermione added, searching Harry's face.

"James dared him to a race – they broke out my old Firebolt and Albus lost control and fell," Harry replied tersely, to a low whistle from Ron. "A seven year old on a Firebolt, that's an accident waiting to happen, mate." Harry shook his head darkly, "James should have known better."

"Oh Harry–" Hermione leaned closer to the fire, her bushy bangs falling into her eyes, but Harry quickly cut her off. "Would you send James back over? Thank you both for taking care of him tonight," he finished, his voice quietly forbidding. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Ron shook his head warningly at his wife. "We'll get James over by floo in a bit. Send our love to Ginny and the kids, Harry." Harry nodded, and allowed a small smile for his closest friends, before quickly wrenching his head back out from the fireplace. He stepped back from the hearth, brushing off the knees of his jeans, and waited with crossed arms for his oldest child to return home.

A few minutes passed in bated silence, and then the fireplace flared emerald green again, throwing out a disorientated James who swayed on the spot. Harry moved to help his son, but James quickly righted himself, and stepped away from his father, keeping his brown eyes determinedly on the ground. Father and son spent the next moments in complete stillness, until Harry broke it with a cool "Go to your room. You are grounded." James nodded twice, his eyes never leaving the carpet, and turned mutely up the stairs. Harry watched his retreating back, the usually proud arc of James' neck now bent in defeat, the confidence and bounce in his steps replaced by a shuffling uncertainty. He watched until his son disappeared from view, and then rubbed his eyes wearily, moving backwards until he could sink into a waiting couch. He took off his glasses, and out of habit, attempted to comb through his unruly hair, before quickly giving up the futile act and sighing quietly.

Not for the first time that night, he thought of his father, and of his godfather, and wondered if they would have approved of James' recklessness, instead of contemplating how best to punish him for it. A small voice at the back of his own head reminded Harry that James was not completely to blame for the accident. Albus worshipped his older, laughing brother, and would have risen to any challenge or request James made of him. And James cared deeply for his younger sibling, despite his teasing bravado, and Harry was certain that he never meant for Albus to get hurt. His older son fiercely resembled the men he was named for, not just in his trademark Potter black hair and his inherited brown eyes, but also in his spirited, mischievous nature and affectionate heart. Harry sighed again, this time remembering how Sirius had dismissed the fear of recapture to quell the worries of his sixteen-year-old godson, just so that he could be near Hogwarts to watch over Harry. Half an hour had passed before he finally stirred from his position, and almost as though he had meant to do this all along, he found himself making his way to James' Quidditch themed bedroom.

James was still awake, as Harry had correctly guessed, and he hesitated outside the bedroom door, already zealously painted red and gold by the boy who was still three years too early for Hogwarts. Harry knocked softly, and gave his son fair time to scramble quickly into bed, before he pushed open the door and entered the room. James was tucked in messily under his quilt, and his eyes blinked owlishly at his father as Harry moved to sit next to him on the bed. Once more, seconds passed in silence as James contemplated the ceiling and Harry watched the soft dance of James' roaring lion nightlight, a gift from George Weasley last Christmas. Finally, a meek voice, "Is Al going to be alright?"

Harry looked down at the eldest Potter child, and smoothed his unruly black hair off his forehead. "Yes, Al is going to be fine," his voice turned grave, "but why did you dare your brother to the race? You know the agreement – no flying unless your mom or I are there to watch over the both of you, and especially not on the Firebolt." James' slid further into his blanket, squirming under his father's gaze. "I just wanted to prove that I am better than Al at some thing," he mumbled, so low and quickly that Harry almost missed the words. Nevertheless, he stared at his son, almost beseechingly, as though he had missed the words after all. "Why would you want to do that?" he asked, softly, resting his hand on James' head to let the child know he was not angry with him. James shifted around some more, but looked his father honestly in the face. "Everyone we meet is always so impressed with Al because of his name. Albus Severus," he paused, and then passionately declared, "But I didn't mean for Al to get hurt! Really! I was just …jealous, I think," he ended in an ashamed whisper. After a brisk pause, James continued, "The lady we saw yesterday at Zonko's said Al's name was "a noble inheritance". What does that mean, dad?"

Harry felt his heart keel as he took in the determinedly brave expression James was wearing. "I expect she meant the bravery of the two headmasters that Albus is named for," he said carefully, even as a look of disappointed knowing flickered in James' brown eyes. "James," he began, turning his body fully to face his older son, "do you think you are less special because of your name?"

"I know I am named after granddad, but headmasters are cooler," the child muttered, half-sulkily. Harry sighed quietly, suddenly understanding the enormity of his failure to speak of his father and godfather to his child, the enormity of his mistake of keeping the two men deep in his own heart, their memory still too painful for him to share. "James, it is true that Al is named for the two bravest headmasters Hogwarts has ever had, but your name is just as special." "It is true," Harry stressed, acknowledging the skeptical look that his child gave him, "you are named after James Potter, my father, and Sirius Black, his best friend and my godfather. The world never got a chance to know the both of them like it knew Albus Dumbledore and even Severus Snape, but they," he swallowed, "were the best, the fiercest, the bravest, and the most loving men I had ever known."

James climbed into a sitting position, his eyes now inquisitive and interested. Harry smiled at him, and wrapped an arm over the boy's shoulder, pulling him neatly into himself. "There is a certain bravery in anonymity, James." Seeing James' confused look, Harry clarified, "It takes courage and great selflessness to not be known by the world for who you really are, for the greatness you have in your heart. And your granddad and your grand-godfather were exactly such men. Your grandfather may have died quietly, without his name celebrated in marble halls, but he died protecting your grandmother and me. He was a man who fought for what he believed in, and he was a fierce friend, and a … good father," Harry ended quietly. James curled up against his father's arm, and didn't speak, waiting for his father to blink away the wetness that had suddenly appeared in his green eyes.

When he was able again, Harry continued, a smile for his child again. "And do you know, James, about the only prisoner who managed to break out of Azkaban?" James shook his head, his eyes wide at the mention of that fearsome prison, the site of many pretend adventures he has had with Al and his cousins. "Your grand-godfather, the one you received your middle name from, was that infamous prisoner," Harry allowed James time to gasp out his surprise and what the older man suspected was impressed awe, and continued. "Sirius spent 12 years of his life in prison, wrongly judged for having killed your grandparents. He was, even more than your granddad, a man that the world never truly knew. When he died trying to protect me, as he had done nearly all my short time with him, the world still thought him a dangerous murderer."

Father and son lapsed into silence again, the stillness of the room only punctuated by James' nightlight, which roared occasionally. And then James started bouncing on the bed, his brown eyes gleeful, "Sirius is cool, dad! Why did you never mention this before?" Harry laughed, the first time that evening since Albus's accident, and thought his daredevil godfather would have been pleased to be considered cool for his stint in prison. "James," he interrupted, seriously, "do you know why I told you all this?" Brown eyes met green, and Harry took a breath. "The men you were named for were not any lesser than the most celebrated headmasters. They had their own courage, including the bravery to accept misunderstanding and anonymity in order to protect those they loved."

"Their legacy is your inheritance, son."

The young boy's face was rapt with amazement, and he nodded, pride and pleasure slowly evident in his bright eyes. Feeling like his job was done for the night, Harry kissed the child on the forehead, and moved towards the door. He paused at the frame, and looked back mischievously, "You know the Marauders Uncle George has always told you about?"

"Yeah," James breathed, his tone reverent for those great men whom his favourite Uncle considered his own role models.

Harry struggled not to laugh at his son's expression, and as he slipped out of the door, he informed the child, "Well, your grandfather and Sirius were Prongs and Padfoot. Goodnight, James."

James' splutter of "What?!" followed Harry down the hallway, and the grown man chuckled, suddenly feeling a lot lighter than he had for a long time. As he made his way back into his own bedroom, he imagined the ghosts of two men at his side, as they had appeared to him years ago in his hour of need, wearing identical grins of approval and love. "Your legacy is in good hands," the son of marauders whispered, finally able to begin laying to rest the memories.

A few hours later saw the reaping moon begin to cede her reign to the approaching dawn, and James Sirius Potter to still be awake in his bed, even though his own father had already fallen asleep hours ago. The child looked out his window at the winking ball, and confidentially declared, his voice strong and certain, "I inherit the world."

- Fin -


End file.
